


Falling Apart to Halftime

by StrictlyFromCorn (orphan_account)



Series: Fred Astaire x Ginger Rogers [19]
Category: Astaire/Rogers RPF, Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers Movies
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2596802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/StrictlyFromCorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>WARNING: This fanfic contains dark themes and reader discretion is advice. Dark!AU where Fred and Ginger do end up married, but their relationship goes steadily downhill after an idle comment and the addiction to a certain type of thrill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling Apart to Halftime

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's my Fred/Ginger fanfic after three months. I am so sorry about the wait, but school has seriously been stressing me out. (And I went and fell head over heels in love with Peter O'Toole... oops.) I absolutely adore writing darker stories, and I've messed around with a few in the past, but I figured I'd publish this one since it's been so long. Like I said, it deals with some mature themes (but nothing explicit), so be forewarned. I'm not sure how well it came off, but hey, it was fun to write. This was also inspired, in part, by the song "Dance Dance" by Fall Out Boy.  
> I'll try my best to get Dancing in the Dark back on track as soon as possible, though. >:)

_She says she's no good with words but I'm worse_   
_Barely stuttered out "A joke of a romantic", or just stuck to my tongue_   
_Weighed down with words too over-dramatic_   
_Tonight it's "It can't get much worse"_   
_Vs. "No one should ever feel like..."_

* * *

 No one could’ve really predicted the turn that their marriage would have taken after that one idle comment one of their friends had made about rigging the stakes at a casino for the hell of it. It was unclear which one of them had actually initiated the cheating, after so many successful operations, but more certain was the fact that Fred managed most of it nowadays. It had become a way of life, an attitude, and even a philosophy. Earlier on, he’d thought there was nothing more enjoyable than dance in his life.

He was wrong.

There was something about the thrill when the dealer picked up the marked cards, and the fear of being discovered, that couldn’t be replaced by anything else. Fred had become a firm subscriber to the belief of hedonism – and it was undeniable that Ginger found the same pleasure in it, too.

Of course, crime never paid. But their retribution hadn’t come in the form of being arrested; as a matter of fact, no one had even batted an eyelash or suspected a _thing_. It was a smoother run than either Fred or Ginger could’ve hoped for. It was glorious.

Their payment instead came in the breakdown of their marriage. It had a fairytale beginning, with the two dancing partners becoming a couple off-screen as well as on-screen, but it looked like it was headed for a nightmarish ending.

Money corrupted people and they were no exception to that saying. Neither Fred nor Ginger could remember a _single_ night when they’d gone to bed completely happy; at least, not in recent history. He’d become paranoid of betrayal and acted more controlling by the day, and she’d become determined to stay _out_ of Fred’s control.

It was odd that a petty thing such as money could’ve torn apart their relationship to that extent, but it was a powerful and cruel master. Sure, sometimes they felt bad about what they were doing to each other. Fred and Ginger couldn’t deny they weren’t without their longing for the old days, when they were just two dancing partners in love, but they _also_ knew they would both rather die than admit it out loud.

The good thing about their situation was that they were actors. In front of the public and even their closest confidante, Hermes, they put up the façade of being the perfect couple, _madly_ in love with each other. No one except the two of them knew of the ferocious arguments that happened every night without fail.

Ginger had watched him break cane after cane over his knee in anger after another heated dispute, knowing fully well that Fred was imagining breaking her _neck_ instead. The most horrific incident, though, was when she’d purposely held a lit cigarette against her forearm after a quarrel just to show how upset she was at something he’d said. She recalled every detail clearly when Fred had found out. There was a troubled look in his eyes that remained there only for a second, before being replaced by the guarded and suspicious expression that he so often wore.

Strangely enough, the feeling of him holding Ginger’s wrist so gently had become so alien to her, because the only time they touched, usually, was during the arguments. He would grab her by the arm or wrist, and she would claw and scratch at him with her long, manicured nails. She’d drawn blood on more than one occasion and Fred always wiped it off as if it were just sweat. He’d even stopped looking surprised after the first few times, and the ironic smile that he always smiled afterwards made Ginger stop feeling bad for him.

After seeing the cigarette burn, Fred let go of her wrist and said nothing as he produced a packet from his pocket and lit one up, too. Still not speaking, he’d turned the lit end on himself and pressed it against his own skin in the same fashion Ginger had done.

The sizzle almost made her jump, but the brief flicker of pain on Fred’s face was what hurt her more. He had to bite his lip because of the agony, and eventually let the cigarette butt fall from his hand. Neither of them spoke a word as he put it out under his shoe and turned around to leave. Ginger considered saying something, but decided against it, and the door had slammed in her face before she had time to change her mind.

When she had finally found the words to ask Fred why he’d done it, he had shrugged and muttered something about them “equals”, no matter how much he hated it. Ginger didn’t press the topic further.

But sometimes, she really thought he cared. _  
_

* * *

_I'm two quarters and a heart down_   
_And I don't want to forget how your voice sounds_   
_These words are all I have so I'll write them_   
_So you need them just to get by._

* * *

 

“Downtown casino, tonight?” Fred had long ago dispensed with the friendly greetings or signs of affection. They wounded both his and her pride too much to be continued. They went through dance rehearsals and filming in the day – and rigged the stakes in the casinos at night.

“Whatever you say, Astaire.” Ginger never addressed him by his first name any longer, unless it was in front of others. It would’ve been too intimate, too personal. It denoted a connection that she didn’t want to acknowledge.

“Meet me there at nine tonight.” That was usually the extent of the conversations they had, those days. As Fred walked away, she couldn’t help but notice as the light shone on the red scratch marks on his face, from the night before.

“Astaire.” Ginger called out, trying to keep her tone as deadpan as possible. He turned around with a “hmm?” that was almost the same as “old times” – when Fred would murmur that into her ear every time she asked him a question. “Cover up those scratch marks.”

“I’m not an amateur, _Rogers_.” She waited till he’d left the room to wince at the amount of venom in that last word. Their dream had really degenerated into that mad, living hell, and there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

 

The library was Fred’s sanctuary. He was never a big fan of books but as of late he’d started to find comfort in the shelves of old, leather-bound books that no one really read. He liked the smell – almost as much as he liked the scent of a smoke-filled room of gamblers – and, metaphorically, it was where he could _breathe_.

The wooden desk, carved with ornate patterns on the drawers, sat in a nook of the room. It was scattered with papers and half-written letters that were carefully covered up by books strategically left open. Most of the letters were addressed to Ginger; Fred never found the time or heart to finish them, but he didn’t want to throw them away, either. He hated the sentimental part of his personality that insisted he keep them around despite the possibility of being discovered.

The content of those letters was filled with the affection he’d been withholding from Ginger. Declarations of love, apologies, poems… everything Fred felt but didn’t say. Part of him wanted to burn those in the fireplace and tell himself the marriage was only to keep up appearances, but the other part of him refused to let go of those moments in the rehearsal rooms when they’d kissed with all their hearts.

As Fred neared the desk, he noticed the last letter. It had been written the night before, probably in a slightly inebriated state, combined with the natural rush of anger and desperation after every disagreement. That explained the handwriting, which was messy and almost illegible, nothing at all like Fred’s usual writing. He could only read two words, scribbled at the top of the page—

_“I’m sorry.”_

The rest of it was too scrambled for him to decipher. He looked at it for a long moment, hands fluttering at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching, struggling to decide whether to crumple it up and get rid of it, or hide it somewhere only _he_ knew, but still keep it intact.

Eventually, Fred just turned on his heel to find something to conceal the scratch marks. _  
_

* * *

_Dance, dance, we're falling apart to halftime_   
_Dance, dance, and these are the lives you'd love to lead_   
_Dance, this is the way they'd love_   
_If they knew how misery loved me!_

* * *

 

They’d earned the title of “Best Dressed Couple in Hollywood”, and Fred and Ginger lived up to that name as they emerged from their luxurious Rolls-Royce, arms linked in order to maintain the charade. He was dressed in his white tie and tails, as always, and she, in a sumptuous red dress with matching platform heels. The red carnation on Fred’s lapel complimented the look.

Sometimes they went to “low profile” casinos when they didn’t want to be recognized, and on those occasions, they generally used various methods of disguise. On the other hand, the payoff wasn’t very sizeable at those places.

Besides, it was about time that Fred and Ginger made an appearance in style.

“Blackjack first?” Ginger paused to smile for some photos, trying not to let it show how intolerable it was to have to pretend to be a blissfully happy couple. Not only was it draining; it also got on her last nerve.

“Mm-hm.” They had a tried and tested method for cheating at those games. Sometimes Fred would palm the cards, and other times, they’d just raise each others’ stakes and force the rest into folding their cards. With anyone else, perhaps, those methods would raise suspicion, but their star statuses surely helped their credibility. The benefits of being a Hollywood star could come in handy in the strangest of situations sometimes.

After posing for a few more pictures for the paparazzi, the couple walked into the already-crowded casino floor, blending right into the well-dressed crowd of patrons and high-rollers. A few people recognized them and they went through the requisite smiling and waving; that was the only part the couple didn’t like about those places.

“Roulette next?” Ginger’s eager inquiry even before they’d reached the blackjack table prompted an annoyed look from Fred. It seemed like neither of them could go long without saying something that annoyed the other. She noted that the marks on his face had been covered up so skilfully that no one could tell there was anything out of the ordinary.

“Let’s just take it one at a time, huh?” His snappy tone prompted her to roll her eyes at her husband, before the two of them remembered they were supposed to act the part of a happy couple. Sometimes, that part entailed so much more effort than Ginger was willing to give.

They said no more as they sat down at the poker table. _  
_

* * *

_You always fold just before you're found out_   
_Drink up; it's last call, last resort_   
_But only the first mistake._

* * *

 They had become lax after so many successful jobs without any hitches. Fred wasn’t sure if it was his fault or hers — but the eyes of the dealer and the rest of the patrons were upon him within seconds. It was an amateur mistake, getting caught with his hand on top of the card deck.

“Sorry. I was resting my hand there. Didn’t realize it was the card deck.” The excuse was flimsy and wouldn’t have worked if it were anyone else other than _Fred Astaire_ saying it. He added to those words a disarming smile and a casual flick of the ash off his cigarette, and that seemed to just seal the deal.

One could almost hear the earnest voice of the dealer, saying, _“He ain’t a cheater! Why, this fella is the most classy gent ya would ever meet!”_

“Oh, of course, Mr. Astaire! Don’t even worry about it! It’s natural— even the best of us do it—” With the dealer and a few more managers, who’d been alerted to the situation, crowding around Fred, murmuring those assurances, he couldn’t help but cast a meaningful glance in Ginger’s direction.

Whatever doubts they had individually about the business, he _knew_ what the hell he was doing. She looked away, trying to hide the disgust in her face. What a vile, spiteful man he’d become. She didn’t recognize the sweet Fred who would kiss her on the hand and tell her she was beautiful. Perhaps the worst part, for Ginger, was the uncertainty whether he still loved her or not.

She herself wasn’t sure if she felt the same way about him. _  
_

* * *

_Why don't you show me the little bit of spine_   
_You've been saving for his mattress, love?_   
_I only want sympathy in the form of you crawling into bed with me._

* * *

 And, yes, it must be noted that, although the affection was long gone from Fred and Ginger’s marriage, their impulses to make love hadn’t disappeared. It was always rough, scornful, and completely devoid of the gentleness that had been so prominent in the beginning of their relationship. They’d always end up hurting each other — and there was a certain sort of twisted pleasure in the knowledge that the other was in pain, and the sensation they experienced themselves.

Ginger had found a new lover in the form of a rich businessman: one of the Vanderbilts, actually. He was always around, always making Fred jealous, and the envy that burned within him satisfied her like nothing else could. Not even taking home the biggest stakes of the night compared, because they both knew their cheating racket had started not because of the need of money, but for the fun of it.

Maybe he was gentle where Fred wasn’t. Maybe he had become a replacement, albeit a poor one, for what the dancer had meant to Ginger. The thought that Vanderbilt couldn’t compare to Fred in terms of meaning — because he and Ginger were always meant to be together — was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind on the nights when the space where she usually slept in their bed was cold and empty.

On those particularly bad nights, when she was away with Vanderbilt and Fred was left alone at home, he sometimes thought of getting rid of his competition. It ate away at him like a fire from hell and what _got_ him was that Ginger enjoyed seeing him writhe and suffer like that. He didn’t want to give her the satisfaction but at the same time, he couldn’t help it.

Fred recalled clearly one of those nights when Ginger was out. She’d returned home close to midnight, and he was still sitting at the bar in their house. He could never forget the smile on her face as she walked through the door — the smile that was so quickly replaced with a look of unpleasant surprise when she’d discovered that Fred was still up.

“Did Vanderbilt show you a good time?” Again, there were no niceties and greetings. The hint of sarcasm in his voice was unmistakable. He leered at Ginger, eyes narrowed as he noted the new designer purse that she’d ostensibly been presented with earlier that night.

“None of your business, Astaire.” She replied evasively, trying not to meet his gaze. “Now move, I want to sleep.” As Ginger tried to step past him, he extended a hand that blocked her way, causing her to give him an exasperated glare.

“I’m sure Vanderbilt is an excellent lover. As good as me? Surely he can’t be… better.” Fred leaned in closer and closer as he spoke those words.

“Get out of my way, Astaire.” She hated that venomous side of him and didn’t want to deal with it; not then, not ever.

“Does he know your body like I do?” He still wouldn’t let Ginger walk past him. The latter bit her lip and said nothing for a minute — and then, out of nowhere, she rose her hand and delivered a stinging slap across Fred’s face. It was so hard, they both instantly knew there were going to be marks in the morning, and the resounding thud seemed terribly loud in the absence of other noises in the house.

“I hate you.” She muttered under her breath, voice full of seething and fury as she defiantly met his gaze. As Ginger expected, he didn’t even look surprised at the slap.

In one swift motion, Fred stepped forward, grabbed her by the shoulders and covered her mouth with his own. He knew just what to do to hit that “sweet spot”, because they’d been kissing and doing it for so long. To her chagrin, Ginger let out a moan of pleasure — it always felt so good when he did it, no matter what the circumstances. He felt gratified at the sound, as if it were a confirmation that Vanderbilt couldn’t hold a candle to him, and let go.

“I fucking hate you.” This time, _she_ reached forward and grabbed Fred by the collar to kiss him. It was rough, intense, and the fact that Fred had taken a step backwards in surprise satisfied her beyond any measure. _Yes_ , he was right that no one could compare to him, and Ginger both hated it and loved it at the same time. Eventually they pulled away to breathe, but neither of them was anywhere near done yet.

“I hate you, too.” Fred panted, moving to kiss her on the neck this time.

The best they could do was resist the urge to tear each others’ clothes off, right there. _  
_

* * *

_Dance, dance, we're falling apart to halftime_   
_Dance, dance, and these are the lives you'd love to lead_   
_Dance, this is the way they'd love_   
_If they knew how misery loved me!_

* * *

 His hazel gaze was pensive as he watched the sparks leap out of the fireplace and the flames lick hungrily at the wealth of love notes he’d thrown in there. They glowered orange and red and yellow, reducing the papers to ashes. The only part Fred hated about it was that his feelings couldn’t be set alight so easily.

In his right hand he held a letter from the bank, and he didn’t even have to open it to know what it was all about. This was the _discreet_ way in which those establishments dealt with cheaters. Instead of hauling them out of the casino and making a public spectacle of the place, owing to the fact the cheater was a well-known figure, they let them leave and mailed them letters instead. The police would come and arrest them at their houses, which prevented the casino from being disgraced. It was a nice system, he thought, for both the casino and the cheater.

Fred knew a day like that would come sooner or later, and he’d even thought of different scenarios and written notes to himself as to what to do. (Those notes, incidentally, were also being burned with his love letters.) But nothing really could prepare him for the day when his and Ginger’s cheating actually _did_ come to light. Fred was fully cognizant of the fact that there would be a scandal, and that was the bit he didn’t like.

He hadn’t told Ginger about the letter — no, he’d only reveal it after he had thought of a proper battle plan for the two of them. They always got through those things together, despite the rockiness of their relationship. Much as he _knew_ she hated to admit it, Fred knew how to handle those situations.

The more he thought, though, the more options seemed closed off to him. He didn’t want to involve Hermes in that mess, and he couldn’t depend on anyone else, either. It looked like he was going to have to solve that mess himself, but just how was still unclear.

At the end of all that deliberating, Fred left the library with his revolver and two bullets in his back pocket. He knew he’d find Ginger in the living room, probably painting or coloring something. They hardly went out anywhere else besides the casinos — no more romantic dates at restaurants, or outings to the park on Sunday afternoons.

“Rogers.” She looked up at the sound of her name, knowing by the tone that it was Fred. As he’d expected, she _was_ drawing; this time, a sketch of the two of them before their relationship went sour. They were dancing, cheek to cheek, just like old times. “I need to talk to you.”

“Fire away, Astaire. I’ve got all the time in the world anyway.” Ginger responded sulkily, trying to hide the drawing from him. At any rate, Fred didn’t seem interested in it.

“Here.” He held out the letter to her without further comment. Ginger took the envelope from his hand, and her eyes widened at once at the bank’s name and logo. She didn’t open it, either; her hands had started trembling all of a sudden, and her gaze searched Fred’s in a mixture of panic and desperation.

“Is that—” Her reply came in the form of a somber nod from her partner. “But… well, what do we do now?” Bad news always came when least expected, and she was _definitely_ not prepared.

“I gave it some thought.” Fred produced the revolver from his pocket, to a gasp from Ginger. “We can’t risk a scandal now, and we can’t explain all of this away. I never signed up for jail time, either, so this is the only way out.” He could see the realization in her gaze as she stared at the revolver — it was painfully obvious she didn’t want to die right then.

“Oh.” That was all she could get out.

“Look, we both knew this would come sooner or later.” Fred sat down next to her, not knowing why he was trying to comfort her when they had so little time left. “It’s hard to do, but it’ll be painless. You won’t feel anything.”

“It’s not that, it’s just—” Ginger secretly found the presence of Fred next to her very comforting.

“Vanderbilt?” He took the other man’s name not with venom in his voice, but just an inquiring lilt to his tone.

“No, not him!” The intensity with which she said those words startled both of them. “It’s just… _us_. What’s going to happen? What’s going to—” Ginger paused, trying to keep her emotions under control. It would be dreadful if she started crying then.

“The more you think about these things, the harder it’s going to be. This is the easy way out; better than years and years in prison.” Fred inched closer towards her on the sofa, resisting the urge to put his arm around Ginger’s shoulder.

“You’re right.” She sucked in a deep breath. “Alright, I’m ready.” Her blue gaze went to the drawing that was now destined to stay unfinished, and turned it over in her lap. “You or me first?”

“Ladies first.” Ginger closed her eyes and held her hand out for Fred to give her the gun. She was trying her best to ignore her racing heart and sweating palms. Best to get it done and over with quickly. “But—” Fred’s voice interrupted her concentration and she opened her eyes to look at him just _one more time_. “I could do you a favor. I could shoot _you_ first, and then I could turn the gun on myself. The newspapers will absolve you of all blame. You’ll be the long-suffering wife who tried her best to keep her husband’s illicit activities under wraps. I’ll play the villain. I forged some papers in the library, little notes to make this story more credible. No one will ever know.”

“Very kind of you.” Ginger’s gaze found the tiled floor and stayed there. Her words weren’t laced with sarcasm as they usually would be; she knew the situation was far too serious for her to be snappy. Instead, her statement was filled with genuine emotion, something which had become exceedingly rare. But even then, she was trying her best to suppress her feelings and thoughts, before the full realization of what they were about to do dawned upon her, and she backed out. “But one more thing, _Fred_ —” It was so nice to call him that again, one last time. “Why all this trouble for me?”

“I’m glad you asked, after so long.” A cynical smile crossed his face. “Because I’ve loved you all along, _Ginger_.”

She looked up and kissed Fred one last time, properly, like how they’d both done, that very first time in New York.

And then two gunshots went off, loud enough to make anyone in the neighborhood jump.


End file.
